Kushiel's Dart

given when first we set sail. High overhead, Hyacinthe clutched the railing of the crow's-nest, weak with his efforts.
    Before us lay landfall, a stony beach, with green hills leading down to it, a bright silver river snaking through the green.
    And on the beach, what looked suspiciously like a reception party.
    Fully armed and awaiting us.

SIXTY-NINE
    "Drop anchor!" Quintilius Rousse's roar split the sudden brightness, as sails were lowered and lashed with alacrity, the rowers dug in the oars, the ship slowing in the backwash of water they churned. Hyacinthe descended the rigging on shaking legs. With a mighty clang, the anchor was loosed, enormous links of chain rattling through the winch. The ship came to anchor in the deep waters of the bay, broadside to the shore, the Courcel swan fluttering from her mast. Quintilius Rousse muttered under his breath, reaching into his purse; a gold coin he drew out, tossing it overboard in a high arc. It glittered in the sun, and fell with a splash. It is a sailor's superstition, to pay tribute to the Lord of the Deep after a dangerous journey.
    And then all of us found places along the length of the ship, staring landward.
    It was a small enough party, no more than a dozen men, in bright woolen plaids. But they waved broadswords in the air, no mistake, sun flashing off steel.
    "What do you make of that?" Rousse asked, pointing and squinting.
    I followed his line of sight. Two figures, in the forefront, smaller than the others. The larger was still, unlike the others, dark-haired; the smallest leaped about, brandishing a spear. Gauging the weapon against the size of the men's swords . . . "A child," I said, "my lord Admiral. Two, perhaps."
    His reddish brows drew down in a scowl. "You're the Queen's em-missary. What do we do?"
    I gathered my cloak around me, clutching briefly at Ysandre's ring. "We go to meet them," I said firmly. "Bring six men, my lord, skilled at arms. I will take Hyacinthe and Joscelin."
    "We'll be outnumbered," he said bleakly.
    "It will show faith." I glanced wryly at Joscelin, gazing shoreward with keen interest, vambraces glinting as he leaned on the rail. "If it is a trap, my lord, all your men would not suffice. If it is not, we will not be outnumbered, not with one trained by the Cassilines on guard. And my lord, if you can spare it... somewhat to offer the Dalriada, from your hoard. The Queen will recompense your loss."
    "So be it." Quintilius Rousse made his selections-Hyacinthe's fishing companion Remy among them-and gave orders, giving the helm over to Jean Marchand. He went into his cabin, returning with a coffer he showed to me, filled with silks and gems, and vessels of spice. I nodded approval, as if I had knowledge of such things. And then one of the oar-boats was lowered, the rope ladder descended, and I found myself handed down into the boat.
    Rousse's six sailors set to at the oars and we began moving through the shining waves, each stroke bringing us closer to shore, farther from the safety of the ship, and all things D'Angeline. I held my head high, doing my best to look as if I knew what I was doing.
    At some thirty yards, they came clear. The men were warriors and no mistake, fair-haired and ruddy, reminding me uneasily of the Skaldi, tall and thewed as they were. But I'd been right: one was a child, a young boy, with red-gold hair and a gold torque about his neck, jumping up and down in his eagerness and shouting in an unintelligible tongue.
    And the other . . .
    She was no child, but a young woman, slim and self-possessed, with black hair and nut-brown skin, and there was a little space around her, where the Dalriada warriors gave way.
    "Be welcome," she said clearly as we drew in earshot, her voice giving tongue to the words in Cruithne, fluid and musical. She held out one hand and the Dalriada men waved their swords, shouting; then sheathed them, surging forward, wading heedless into the sea to grasp the sides of our oar boat, hauling us through the shallows unto the rocky shore. The boy raced back and forth, waving his toy spear.
    "Be welcome," the young woman repeated; no more than a girl, really, with twin lines of blue dots etched along her brown cheekbones. Her dark eyes smiled, her hand still extended.
    The D'Angelines sat stock-still in the boat, beached and no longer rocking on water. With a slight shock, I realized that I and I alone knew what she had said. I rose, taking care not to tilt the boat.
    "I am Phedre no